


Blurred Reflection of Time

by Aliada



Category: StartUp (TV)
Genre: "metal and glass" scene, Could Be Canon, Dark!Phil, Episode: s01e02 Ground Floor, drama on the verge of screaming and running away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 01:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9213398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aliada/pseuds/Aliada
Summary: His existence is covered in small blue mirrors, gulfy holes in the ground with no bridges, and the torture of melting seconds driving him mad. His world goes bleak and lights up again. He’s not hurting anymore.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title refers to the main symbolic part of the story: glass represents time (quibble with "sandglass"), and metal - being a version of glass (as in mirror) - represents reflection.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of StartUp. They are the property of their creators. No infringement intended.

His car goes smoothly – until it doesn’t.

The wheel feels nice and steady. It feels like _power_.

Until it gets knocked out of his hands with a violent push.

Brakes are squealing. Anguish is rushing through his body in one forceful motion, instantly reminding him of every fucking thing in his life that didn’t go right. Every failure he pushed himself through and then buried somewhere in a dark place.

He believes that every person has one of those. Some reveal it, others don’t – but everyone goes there at some point.

And now, his time is coming too.

Stop the car. Unfasten the belt. It feels so casual. The only difference is that his fingers linger a while longer, just a fraction of a second, maybe even not enough to notice – but he does notice, and he knows that dusty corners in his mind do too. After all, dust isn’t only on the outside – it’s also inside. Waiting to be touched, waiting to be poured everywhere it can reach, in every existing shelter – to stand _still_ , to find its creepy peace by taking away everyone else’s.

He gets out of car and tries to make those thoughts disappear. He never liked poetry and other horror-ish shit, so why does it keep coming to him now? Those half-forgotten stories he read as a child, those dark shadows in his well-calculated, sickeningly practical routine. He sees one now.

And it is coming for him.                           

***

He is squatting, his mind blank and drained. Seconds tick by turning his reality into an inevitable run to a gulf.

The fifth second has him turn his head. The sixth one has him fighting for his neutral expression with everything he’s got.

And it is not enough still.

He gets up when the clock ticks “seven” and tells it to shut up. He has another kind of counting to do.

_“Just fixed that bumper, man.”_

It is such a pity everyone can’t just shut the fuck up.

The thought makes him oddly collected. _Today’s shit_ is a bit more extreme, but nothing he can’t deal with. Right?

He concentrates on his expressions. A couple of deep breaths before did make its fair share of work, it seems.

An eye-to-eye stare. A friendly shoulder patting. Aren’t those the things for a successful communication? Especially with someone who just did something “pissing off” doesn’t even begin to describe.

Suddenly, Phil wishes he had more calming breaths in stock.

He fights a sudden desire to close his eyes and focuses on a wary face instead.

He just has to stay here – on the surface, doing the right thing.

How hard can that be?

A flicker of fear in the man’s eyes gives him something dangerously close to pleasure.

And he wants more of it – _much more_ before they call it finished.

The thought makes him deaf for a moment. He still feels air on his skin, cheap steel blue fabric under his palm – but the sounds aren’t here anymore. He says some calming things and listens to the steady vibration of his own voice that merges into his heart beat and destroys everything else around him.

Everything but fear. Ugly, twisted – it starts with only one bursting dot in his stomach, but then… then it lifts its head and blossoms into a deep-rooting choking monster he’s never ready to face.

The man’s eyes widen a bit, and Phil finds himself smiling almost genuinely. His lungs let out a muffled sigh that gets stuck in his throat.

_“I’m all right. You’re all right.”_

Was he really? Bitter taste in his mouth isn’t from the fading nausea, not this time.

_“This – who cares?”_

He faces the car, noticing a fleeting expression of caution directed at his back.

His muscles ease off some tension and go still. His fingers clench and unclench, and for a short moment, he feels like walking away.

Just a few more steps, just a few more silent moments. He can do that.

Another impulse makes him weak, and disgust that follows later is no better. He tries to smile but nothing comes out.

The man’s face is slowly turning back to fear.

Phil turns away, sicker than before.

_“That’s metal and glass. That’s all it is.”_

The words ricochet off the back of his mind and fill his ears making him stagger.

_Metal and glass._

Every fucking piece of reality that made his life as shitty as possible.

Every fucking deception in a sweet-looking wrapper.

Every fucking _just_ with its drilling syllables. His rights and wrongs are covered in holes now, and so is his control.

He says some more words which he doesn’t even remember a second later.

What he _does_ is better, though. Much better. It almost feels like power, like drinking greedily and then having some more until the satisfaction is full.

Itch in his hand is suspiciously like pain. His skin is on fire, and it feels good.

Insanely good.

He stops counting after the third.

He’s not hurting anymore.


End file.
